Wicked Game
by gonna-make-this-TRASHY
Summary: If the sky were to fall maybe the song would never end. Maybe that's what John wants. That is not what John wants. John wants to get married tomorrow. John wants to be a father. John wants a trail of bees to be left in his heart by Mary.


WICKED GAME – CHRIS ISAAK

Sherlock admires the trees.

Their crooked arms reach up desperately.

They're holding up the sky that Sherlock can feel falling.

"I've been thinking about your mind palace." John pours boiling water from the kettle. He is always making tea. Sherlock decides he wants to build a room in his mind palace where John can brew cup after cup.

The doctor laughs. Briefly. Almost nervously. Before continuing: "Surely you have something about dancing tucked away in there?"

"Dancing?" Sherlock knows. He's counted down the days like the rings of a tree trunk working backwards. He knows it was only a matter of time before John asked.

"For the wedding." He clears his throat, sighs into his armchair.

"You can't dance?" Sherlock doesn't know what else he can say. Of course he knows John cannot dance. He remembers everything about John. He has etched the lines of his face on to his heart and let it bled the blues around them.

"You can, yes?"

"I," Sherlock sniffs; he pretends his ribcage isn't breaking the surface of the skin under his shirt, "I might know...enough to get you by."

"That's all I need to impress Mary." John laughs and Sherlock thinks of T.S. Eliot. _Until his teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill._ He gets up before he starts to trace the curve of John's nose with delicate fingers.

Disappearing to his bedroom he finds an old cassette tape in the drawer of his bedside cabinet. He lingers for longer than he really should in the icy solitude of his cave. He remembers buying the cassette. He had been fifteen. Mycroft had disapproved. He said the loud noise disturbed him.

Sherlock does not say anything. His knuckles flash white as they grip the black plastic. He crosses the living room to the stereo system.

"Up."

Placing his mug carelessly on the arm of the chair, John finds himself bound to the presence of the dark-haired detective.

"Right," Sherlock clears his throat, his voice struggles as the music begins. "Place your hand on the small of my back."

John bites his lip, smirking self-consciously. "I swear to god, if you tell breathe a word of this to anyone..."

The firm palm of the doctor melts into the curve of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock is walking on tightropes. He rests his own touch on John's shoulder. He feels his hand burn through the thin material of the man's cardigan; his fingers can almost taste the scar beneath.

Sherlock convinces himself that John's small intake of breath was unrelated to his touch. He believes that if he were to blink, his eyelashes would graze John's weathered skin; he wishes they would leave tyre tracks along his cheek, but he knows dams are built in those few inches between them. His tightrope is headed towards the sun.

"What's the song called?" John's voice is tight. His words try desperately not to hang in the room. They scramble to the nearest ear to avoid the heavy air that suffocates them.

Sherlock is aware that he sounds husky and soft. He does not remember how to change this. Shadows fill his throat and he can't clear it of them. "Wicked Game," he breathes pointlessly.

"How do I move my feet?" John prompts Sherlock in a low voice.

"Listen to the music." He is focusing on keeping his eyes open. He has forgotten how to dance himself. The movement comes naturally after the tune trickles its way down their throats. If the sky were to fall maybe the song would never end. Maybe that's what John wants.

That is not what John wants.

John wants to get married tomorrow. John wants to be a father. John wants a trail of bees to be left in his heart by Mary.

John prefers honey in his porridge but never buys it, fooling himself into thinking he's saving money. He changes the password on his laptop every three weeks. He is yet to take his watch to the jewellers to be mended. He does not listen to music nearly as much as he would have dreamt as a teenager. He keeps a snow globe by his bed. He was seven when he stopped believing bears would scramble at his feet as he trod on a crack on the pavement. He lies his toothbrush by the sink, always forgetting to place it in the cup. He keeps receipts in a tin by the fridge. He grew tomatoes on his window sill when he was student. He never bothers with an umbrella. He gets drunk with Stamford once in a blue moon and crashes on the sofa at two in the morning. Sherlock covers him with the quilt his mother gave him. John always makes a mental note to thank Sherlock. He never remembers to.

Sherlock Holmes can feel the world spinning round; hear the stars crackle and the sun slowly burn itself up. He feels the strangled chokes of wandering souls. Sherlock Holmes feels like the fool on the hill.

Their bodies blend together. Sherlock feels like water running, pounding from a forgotten tap. Only John's firm grasp can cease that energy. A hand print burns into Sherlock's back, he wishes it would mark itself there forever. He wishes he could feel the other man's breath on his collar bones here in 221b until the breathing fades out of existence. He wishes he hadn't let himself slip. He was once so careful about lending out a glimpse of his heart he'd forgotten its presence. Now it was a heavy weight that burned through his shirt. If only John could see it screaming for release.

The repetitive clicks of the tape spin in the machine. Neither of the two men had noticed. Now the taps and the fuzzy silence swim through the living room. Sherlock notices John lips are slightly parted. John becomes achingly aware of the galaxies floating in his detective's eyes. He can see a crack in their shine. He can see himself in them. He sees himself with Mary: he sees the sun bouncing off the paved steps of the church the following day, he sees them build a fortress with their arms as they embrace, he sees himself reading stories to children nestled in blankets, he fights monsters and mends toys, he sees a lifetime of Sunday roasts and crayon drawings stuck to fridges. And he knows Sherlock sees it as well. A life Sherlock could never have, could never give. His touch is cold. He lets it go.

The clouds bend in the moments before they shatter. Sherlock tips dangerously on his tightrope.


End file.
